


You Wish You Could (Make Me Fall in Love With You)

by Ellory



Series: Pureblood Wizarding Culture [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aristocracy, F/M, Genderbending, Polyjuice Potion, Pureblood Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellory/pseuds/Ellory
Summary: She had heard others rave about this wonderful, brilliant, indescribable feeling of rightness, but it had never happened to her—until now.





	You Wish You Could (Make Me Fall in Love With You)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net.

Lady Deirdre Malfoy stared down at her mother’s lifeless body. Her skin was paler than her hair, and her face was twisted in a gruesome mask of agony. The circles beneath her blank gray eyes were as dark as the Death Eater robes that encased her. The Polyjuice hadn’t run out yet, though, so anyone looking at the corpse at her feet would think Deirdre herself lay dead on the ground.

 

After her father, Lucius, had been captured and sent to Azkaban, her mother had laid down the law. No matter what, Deirdre would not be taking the Dark Mark. Narcissa had insisted on switching places with her daughter in order to protect her. So Narcissa Malfoy was Branded with the Dark Mark and went to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Deirdre’s place. Meanwhile, Deirdre hid behind ancestral wards as Narcissa Malfoy.

 

None of this would have been necessary if her father hadn’t been so weak-minded that he allowed a mad half-blood to Imperius him decades ago.

 

“Mother,” she whispered.

 

Disbelief gnawed at her, attempting to refute the truth. But even if she couldn’t see the still form with her own eyes, she would’ve known her mother was truly beyond her reach. Each child had a magical link to their mother from the moment they were conceived, and she had felt her only maternal link shatter the moment that Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord.

 

“It worked, Mother,” she whispered. “I’m alive.”

 

Her father lay somewhere behind her. His dying scream as he clutched his left arm echoed continuously through her mind. She wished he were still screaming, that his vocal cords would shred under the torture. Instead, the weakling had escaped into death and dragged her only happiness, her mother, with him.

 

Deirdre’s manicured nails dug into her palms, biting into the skin. It was the only display of grief that she, a pureblood lady, would allow herself in such a public setting. Childhood training was all that kept her from turning around and cursing her father’s corpse to pieces.

 

He hadn’t been worthy of her mother.

 

“I told you,” she hissed. “I told you he’d destroy us, as he destroyed Potter’s family.” She had tried to sway Lucius from the Dark Lord when the Dark Lord was resurrected, but Lucius hadn’t listened. He never had. She had tried once again to sway him when he escaped from Azkaban, and again he had ignored her. The fool had never sought counsel from anyone but himself, or the Dark Lord. She was nothing but a child. What did she know?

 

She had lost count of how many times he had said, “You’ll never understand, Deirdre. These matters are too complex for the female mind. Why don’t you help your mother organize a party?”

 

Deirdre had never hated her grandparents more than the moment they signed the betrothal contract between her father and mother. She hadn’t been able to stand her father; her mother deserved so much better. As the youngest—and prettiest—daughter, Narcissa was nothing more than chattel. She was merely a bargaining tool for more power.

 

Her eyes stung, but she didn’t cry a single tear. Deirdre still remembered when her mother admitted that she hadn’t cried since the day Heir Sirius Black was lucky enough to escape their family and hadn’t taken her with him. He had always been her favorite cousin, and he had left her in that hell. She had never forgiven him. As her male relative, he could have taken her, offering his protection and sanctuary. He hadn’t.

 

Though her mother said she loved her father, Deirdre never truly believed her. Narcissa Malfoy was an excellent liar. Narcissa had taught her all she needed to know to keep her safe. If Sirius had taken her mother with him, Deirdre probably wouldn’t exist. If her mother had lived . . . it would have been worth the price.

 

“Mother.”

 

Blood dripped from her elegant hands to the ground, landing beside her mother’s broken body. She dully registered the pain in her palms, but discarded the information as worthless. Life as a pureblood witch wasn’t as beautiful as many believed; it wasn’t just parties, courting, gifts, and true love. Maybe the Light witches got such things, but the Dark families treated their daughters as prized possessions.

 

Aunt Andromeda had found a way out, but Deirdre’s mother had never gathered enough courage to follow her older sister’s example. The thought of sullying her purity had been unconscionable. It was a lesson Narcissa had taught her well—some things aren’t worth the price of freedom.

 

“At least she had a choice,” Deirdre said.

 

Now, after almost two decades of life, Deirdre had nothing to show for her time. Her father was, thankfully, dead. Her beloved mother lay lifeless at her feet. Her own reputation had been shredded to pieces by actions her relatives had committed. She could forgive her mother for letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and whatever else she had needed to do to keep Deirdre safe. Only her mother was excusable. Her actions had been out of love, not malice.

 

Pureblood bonds might be glorious to those who care, but they were vicious to those who didn’t. Deirdre had no recourse but to honor and obey her father, even as he destroyed everything that mattered to her.

 

When she was still young, Deirdre had entertained ideas of a loving bonding to a good wizard. He would listen to her opinion, take her dancing, kiss her passionately, and never want to leave her side. He would be nothing like her father. Now, all she could picture was a bonding fit for bedtime stories meant to scare children. She could imagine mothers all across the country saying, “Once upon a time, there was a pretty witch who was full of herself and thought she deserved better than everyone else.”

 

The furor on the battlefield, which she had been tuning out, erupted even louder than before. Deirdre turned around numbly, eyes leaving her mother to trail across her father. His left arm was bent, the sleeve having slipped back to reveal his Dark Mark; it was Killing Curse green, just like Narcissa’s.

 

“This is your fault, Father. Why wouldn’t you listen?”

 

Her gaze danced around and alighted on various Death Eaters. Each fool lay crumpled on the stone floor, robes splayed like a puddle of shadows. She spared a grateful thought to her mother for deciding that her daughter deserved a better future. Her generous decision was all that had saved Deirdre from certain death. And while death would’ve surely been easier, she had never been afforded the opportunity to take the easy path. So why should she now?

 

Raucous cheers echoed through the air, and she turned to face the source of the noise. Harry Potter stood within a circle of wizards and witches, each grinning and reaching forward to thump him on the back.

 

Harry wasn’t standing there accepting their accolades, though. He kept shifting around, neck craned, as if he were desperately searching for someone. A moment later, Harry’s eyes met Deirdre’s.

 

She waited for hatred to swell within her as he gently pushed people aside and wended his way through the crowd. She anticipated the sheer rage that would consume her and inspire her to filch a fallen witch’s wand so she could slaughter him. It never came. Harry Potter hadn’t even been born when the Dark Lord rose to power. He hadn’t been conceived yet when her father allowed the half-blood to Brand him. And he certainly hadn’t forced her mother to take the Dark Mark.

 

That last burden would rest on her shoulders forever.

 

Even in the deepest chasms of her grief at the loss of her mother, Deirdre was well aware that if Narcissa rested on one half of a scale and the entirety of Magical Britain was on the other, her mother would float into the air as countless others tipped the balance.

 

Deirdre waited for Harry to reach her. She wasn’t sure what he wanted, but she knew she would find out soon enough. Perhaps he was coming to thank her for misleading the Dark Lord earlier. Perhaps he was coming to bind her for the Aurors. She didn’t even have a wand, so it’s not like she could resist.

 

She glanced up at the sun; it was high in the sky. The latest dose of Polyjuice would wear off soon. With it, Narcissa Malfoy’s beautiful face would vanish. The potion wouldn’t work with the hair of a deceased person, so she couldn’t even comfort herself by wearing her mother’s visage on occasion.

 

“No more hugs from Mother,” she realized.

 

When Harry was less than ten feet away, the youngest Weasley leaped forward and wrapped herself around him. She blubbered and clung to him in a most unseemly display. Deirdre couldn’t keep her nose from wrinkling with distaste. Real pureblood witches didn’t cry in public; even the Light witches should know that much. Then again, was she really expecting anything acceptable from a Weasley?

 

Her lips curved in the barest hint of amusement as Harry untangled himself and patted the redhead like an errant Crup.

 

When he stepped away from the bewildered girl and continued toward her, Deirdre relaxed her hands. Blood trailed down her palms and fingers to drip off the tips of her fingernails. She stared at it in fascination. Deirdre wished she could heal her hands, but she had no idea where her wand was; she had given it to her mother and . . . wait, hadn’t her mother lost it to Harry Potter?

 

The tip of a wand entered her line of sight. Harry’s deep voice said, “ _Episkey_.” The wounds on her hands healed. Deirdre expected him to follow that spell with a cleaning charm, which shouldn’t be used on human skin. Instead, he surprised her by producing a clean handkerchief. “ _Aguamenti_ ,” he said. A stream of water soaked the handkerchief, and he used it to carefully wipe the blood off her hands.

 

She tore her gaze away from his hand encasing hers to find he was staring past her at her own dead body. “She wasn’t supposed to die,” Harry said, anguished. It was a statement of fact, nothing less.

 

“I didn’t,” Deirdre replied as the Polyjuice began to fade, melting away to reveal her features. At the same time, her corpse shifted and grew into her mother.

 

“You—” He stared from her to her mother, and then comprehension dawned, as if his deepest suspicions had been fulfilled. “I’m sorry for your loss, Lady Deirdre.”

 

“There was nothing you could do,” Deirdre replied. She appreciated the sentiment. Harry Potter was someone who understood how precious mothers were. She regretted every time she had ever insulted his. Lily Evans had earned newblood status; calling her a Mudblood was beyond insulting.

 

A few people moved closer to them, conspicuously eavesdropping. Their lack of subtlety was pathetic.

 

Deirdre withdrew her hands from his hold and folded them before her. She was stunned for a moment when he stopped slouching and stood straight; he was several inches taller than her and barely resembled the young man she remembered from fifth year. She inclined her head toward the youngest Weasley—whose name she had never bothered to learn—and said, “Your happily ever after awaits.” Her fair hair tumbled over her shoulder at the movement, embarrassing her.

 

Without her wand, she had no way to rectify the breach of protocol. Protocol was important to her mother; protocol was important to her.

 

Harry swished and flicked his wand, murmuring too softly for her to make out the words. Deirdre stared at him in shock as she felt her hair twist itself up in elegant braids. Two combs slid into her fair locks, holding a short black veil in place; it covered her eyes but didn’t hamper her vision. She couldn’t imagine where Harry Potter had learned about pureblood grieving traditions. Then again, maybe it was something he had researched after Sirius’s death?

 

Lowering his wand and ignoring the whispers that spread behind him, Harry said, “I’m tired of following Fate’s script.”

 

The maturity in that statement impressed Deirdre, because it was a sentiment she thoroughly agreed with. Hadn’t that been the point of the deception she and her mother played—to rebel against their fates?

 

“So am I,” she agreed.

 

Another wave of whispers appeared at Deirdre’s comment. If she had been unchanged by the war, she might’ve lowered herself to rolling her eyes.

 

Something in Harry’s gaze called to her—some unnamable emotion and depth. Perhaps death had awakened Harry’s memories from past lives, because the shimmering green spoke of an old soul who had seen and suffered far too much.

 

“Harry?” the girl Weasley said as she approached them, one hand pressed to her flat chest.

 

Harry glanced over and offered her a smile that Deirdre had seen on an innumerable amount of faces in her life; it was patronizing—the type of smile an embittered adult gave to a toddler who begged for attention. The type of smile her father had always given her, informing her that he was deigning to give her his notice, but not for long, because there were more important matters to attend to. He had never forgiven her for being an heiress instead of an heir.

 

Her mother had made sure to never smile like that at Deirdre. And despite its presence on his face, she knew Harry would never look at his own children like that, just as he would never treat his wife like her father had treated her mother.

 

“Yes, Ginny?” asked Harry.

 

Ah, so that was her name; it was a horrible appellation. Ugly and common. Ginny’s brown eyes darted from Harry to Deirdre and back again. “What are you doing?”

 

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

 

“I thought I just saw you style Malfoy’s hair, but that makes no sense,” she muttered.

 

“I assure you, Miss Weasley, that Lord Black’s assistance in this matter is not unappreciated,” Deirdre said. Though she had never acknowledged Harry’s titles before, he was of age now. He had proven worthy of her respect; she would give it to him. Sirius had left him an even greater title than his parents had. The double set of family magics were likely what helped him prevail against the Dark Lord.

 

“But I don’t . . .”

 

“Lady Deirdre is my responsibility,” Harry said.

 

“What do you mean?” asked Ginny.

 

Ginny’s mother had obviously done a shoddy job of raising her. How could she possibly be so ignorant? Deirdre would never treat her daughter so poorly as to leave her uneducated on such important topics. Magic was to be revered and customs were to be obeyed. “My father is dead, Miss Weasley,” Deirdre stated tonelessly. “As a pureblood witch, all my father’s wealth becomes the property of my mother’s birth family and I revert to my mother’s maiden name.” If she had a brother, her circumstances would be significantly different than they now were.

 

“So Harry’s a Lord?” Ginny squeaked out. She looked dazed, like someone had cast a Confundus Charm on her. It wasn’t flattering—not that she was pretty in the first place.

 

“Twice over,” Harry replied. His attention returned to Deirdre, and he lightly grasped one of her hands and raised it to his lips. The moment the kiss met her bare skin she gasped, unable to withhold it. Magic hummed through her, echoing from a tie directly to her heart.

 

“The life debt,” she whispered in realization. When Harry nodded, she suddenly understood what was happening and what he wanted.

 

As Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, he was bound by Magic to protect all members of his family. However, since he also owed her a life debt, that desire was being exponentially increased by their magic. That didn’t even account for the bloodline of the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter. It was said that liquid honor filled their veins, not blood.

 

Deirdre knew that she stood at a crossroads, probably the biggest decision of her life. Her magic tugged, urging her toward Harry. There was more than one way to fulfill a life debt, and her magic didn’t seem to be the least bit interested in the regular solution. Tingling warmth devoured her as her magic serenaded him. Deirdre had never reacted like this to a wizard in her life, and she had unfortunately met a great many wizards. She had never fantasized about a particular wizard, had never pondered possibilities, and had never felt this burning desire to belong to someone.

 

She had heard others rave about this wonderful, brilliant, indescribable feeling of rightness, but it had never happened to her—until now.

 

“What life debt?” Ginny screeched. The poor girl looked confused, enraged, and heart broken all at once, as if she had just woken to realize her reality was naught but a lovely dream.

 

Deirdre felt her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, let her magic guide her, and made her choice. Her eyes snapped open and shot to her mother; Deirdre vowed that she would be remembered when she named her firstborn daughter.

 

After steadying her nerves, Deirdre said, “Lord Black, in recompense for saving your life from the Dark Lord, I require a lifetime of protection, fidelity, and respect.”

 

“What?” Ginny yelled, looking as if she would be ill any moment.

 

A loud clamoring noise followed, swelling within each protestor. Wizards and witches alike screamed questions, accused her of unspeakable crimes, and much more.

 

_Oh, forbid their savior should be forced into a bonding with a Dark witch_ , she thought snidely.

 

Harry grinned, which caused his lips to brush across her fingers again. He released her and stepped forward, hands lifting to cup her cheeks. “As you wish, my lady.” And then he kissed her amidst the negative exclamations of his friends and allies, proving to her that his mind wasn’t weak; he wasn’t easily swayed as her father had been.

 

She huffed. “A little warning would’ve been nice, Harry.” He had stolen her first kiss before she was prepared. At least he hadn’t botched it. It was rather moving.

 

He snapped his fingers, and the most hideous house-elf Deirdre had ever seen appeared next to him. “Take Lord and Lady Malfoy to the Manor and prepare them for their last rites.”

 

“Yes, Master.” It left with her parents’ bodies.

 

“Harry, you can’t be serious about—”

 

“Hold on tight,” Harry said as he hugged her to his chest and spun on his heel, Disapparating them. They Apparated inside a dingy foyer; it was steeped in Dark Magic.

 

“Well, this will need some work,” she said dryly. It seemed they had a large renovation project on their hands.

 

Harry didn’t respond to her quip. Now that they were away from public eyes, he embraced her. Harry’s head burrowed against her neck. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know what it feels like to lose a mother. And a father. And so many family members’ bonds snapped in the same day. How are you holding it together?”

 

“I’m not,” Deirdre replied. “Out of necessity, I’m a brilliant actress.” She shuddered and pulled his magic more firmly around her. Her father had never liked sharing his, considering it a weakness. Harry was already proving more generous and protective in five minutes than her father had in almost eighteen years. “Your magic is stabilizing me, for now. Only a bonding will fix it, but I’m not ready for that quite yet.”

 

Harry’s eyes were unbearably sad and understanding as he stroked her cheek and smiled at her. “I bet I can make you fall in love with me, Lady Deirdre, before you can make me fall in love with you.”

 

A wealth of competitiveness roused in her chest. Deirdre smirked at him through painful memories and said, “You wish.”


End file.
